Sky

by Ondine Sherman

  First published in 2017 by The Author People

  PO Box 159, St Ives, NSW, 2075 Australia

  Copyright © Ondine Sherman 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of The Author People.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author:

  Ondine, Sherman

  Title:

  Sky

  ISBN:

  9781925399189 (paperback)

  ISBN:

  9781925399196 (ebook)

  Subject:

  Fiction

  YA Fiction

  Animal protection

  Animal rescue

  Animal welfare

  Animal rights

  Saving animals

  Animal cruelty

  Design:

  Alissa Dinallo

  Cover Photo:

  Douglas Frost

  Author Photo:

  Evelyne Rieger

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed by Lightning Source

  For Jasmine

  ‘You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.’

  - Jane Goodall

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  ‘Watch out!’ I shout as Aunt Paula yanks the steering wheel to the left, swerving to avoid the oncoming truck.

  ‘You okay, Sky?’ Paula asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I roll my eyes. ‘Great.’

  ‘Sorry, sweetie,’ she pats my knee, ‘didn’t see that coming.’ She reaches for another tissue to wipe her eyes. After days of crying, she’s still out of control, and if she doesn’t calm down she will get us killed.

  ‘Can I turn on the radio?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you want to talk a bit?’ Paula blows her nose.

  ‘Music’s good,’ I return my forehead to its resting spot on the car window. I’m in no mood to chat, especially about Mum.

  Outside there is a blue spring sky. The concrete barrier framing the highway whooshes past, occasionally lowering to reveal a poor scraggy gum tree; a lone survivor, like me. There’s nothing interesting to see, but, still, it beats conversation.

  I have nothing to say about my mother and the last thing I feel like doing is talking.

  Being a teen is supposed to be hard. But I have way more serious problems than homework, pimples, bad-hair days and boys.

  My mum died last week and I’m moving to the country to live with my aunt and uncle, who I hardly know. I’m also starting at a new school in three days, in the middle of the last semester. It’s a nightmare and I can’t wake up.

  ‘What kind of music do you like?’ Paula switches on the car radio. ‘We don’t get all the Sydney stations out in West Creek … mostly talkback in our neck of the woods.’

  I put my hand on my belly, feeling it gurgle with anger and sadness. A new wave of resentment hits; I can’t listen to my radio station. One more thing taken away. At home, I always ate breakfast with the cheerful voices of my favourite radio hosts: their banter and the top ten the soundtrack to my morning routine. Mum left at dawn to work at her bakery but she always filled a bowl with toasted muesli and almond milk, put out my B12 supplement and squeezed a shot of orange juice in winter to boost my vitamin C. Mum’s bestie, a curly ginger-haired super hippy named Melody lived with us. But she worked nights and slept in late, so I ate alone.

  My eyes sting with the memory. But if I cry that would mean this nightmare is real.

  ‘Guess I’ve got a lot to get used to,’ I mumble.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ she says.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘I’m so out of touch with music,’ Paula continues. ‘Your mum and I always swore we’d never be those pathetic women who only like songs from their youthful glory days, but now I’m just like that,’ her voice smiles, ‘nearly an old bat.’

  ‘You’re not old,’ I should dutifully protest, but I can’t be bothered.

  Paula brushes a wisp of fine brown hair behind her ear. Mum was the little sis, two years younger than Paula. Ages ago my aunt married David, a country boy, and moved out to the middle-of-nowhere.

  I study Paula’s face. Almost unfamiliar. Paula and Mum share the same nose and chiselled chin, but Mum is much prettier, all sparkling green eyes and long wavy hair that she often plaited to one side.

  Paula’s barely been in my life for years because of some fight with Melody, Mum’s oldest friend who shared our flat, when she first moved in. It was so crazy-bad that Paula refused to visit. Mum stood up for Melody and said it was her home too; even if Paula didn’t like her, she insisted that Paula had to deal. Paula said no, that we would have to drive out to stay with her instead. Mum didn’t buy it. West Creek is hundreds of kilometres away and Mum worked Saturday mornings, even holidays, which made it totally impractical. I don’t get why Paula hated Melody so much. Even if you dislike someone that much, just grow up. I’m her only niece, she’s my only family and her stupid fight affected me too. Just like my useless father, she clearly doesn’t care.

  But the drama didn’t end there. After Mum got sick with cancer, she and Paula had another fight. Neither of them would tell me what that was about either. Like I’m some little girl who couldn’t take the truth.

  Finally, Paula finds a station and turns up the volume. The barrier finishes and the landscape is dotted with garish red and yellow McDonald’s signs and other fast food chains.

  It reminds me. ‘Let’s convince Maccas and those big chains to switch to free-range eggs,’ Mum had said a year ago. ‘We’ll start an online petition.’

  ‘But the free-range egg industry buys their hens from breeders who kill millions of male chicks, remember?’ I replied and promptly googled an article from the RSPCA to prove it. I turned veggie two years ago and for the last eight months I’ve been vegan. This was one of the reasons I switched.

  ‘I know, but better something than nothing, don’t you think?’ She smiled. Although Mum couldn’t make the jump from omni (that’s what the vegos call people who eat animal products) to vegan, she was super-supportive. ‘But if you want, we can start another petition for them adding a veggie burger. How’s that, Sunshine?’

  We didn’t end up doing either. Too busy, I guess. Now it will never happen.

  Mum and I shared a love of animals.

  Our building didn’t allow pets but she always pounced on dogs in the street, attacking them with cuddles, their owners taken aback by the strange woman. It was embarrassing. When some girls walked around, they noticed cute boys and enviable fashion, but I
saw only one thing. Dogs. Loved them all: black, brown, spotted, shaggy and curly, noses long or piggy, and eyes bulging or almond. I knew all my neighbourhood residents through what lay on the ends of their leads. Mum and I dreamed of flying to Indonesia to see the orangutans (her favourite animal) and then to China to trek for pandas, which are mine. Unlike everyone I know, I’ve never been overseas. Now those dreams, like everything else, are shattered.

  I notice a piece of cuticle on my thumb and gnaw it off. All my nails are chewed. The habit started at the hospital during the last weeks of Mum’s losing battle with cancer.

  Try falling asleep in a stupid squeaky trundle bed with your mum withering away by your side. If you google the opposite of relaxing, that would be it. The beeping and buzzing machines didn’t help; neither did the nurses, their desk outside her room, stirring teas with teaspoons clanking and squawking about the latest gossip. To pass the time I chewed my nails, wandered the halls, hashtagging reality away and re-reading old books.

  I’d check on Mum for the millionth time and eventually drift off counting the seconds, usually four, between her Darth Vader inhales and exhales. It was almost peaceful, like the yoga class we once went to where we learnt ujjayi breath that sounds like the ocean. Mum spent a week in that room until the cancer finally ate her up.

  Biting my nails passes the time, but really, I’d chew my hand off like a dingo in a trap, I’m hurting that much.

  ‘Fancy stopping for something to eat?’ Paula checks her watch. ‘There’s a roadside café coming up soon.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I say, pulling down the rear-view mirror to make myself presentable. Taking off my sunglasses, I sweep my hair into a ponytail and inspect the red spot on my nose again, clearly visible even among the hundreds of freckles. I haven’t bothered to wear makeup for a while. I put the glasses back on: my eyes, well they’re just plain weird. One green and the other brown. The green one matched Mum’s and the brown must have come from my father, but who’s to know since I’ve never even seen a picture of him.

  I pull out lip balm and dab it on my dry and chapped mouth and try to flatten the horrid frizzy hair on the side of my forehead.

  Mum, Melody and her whole gaggle of girlfriends all swooned I was ‘growing into a beautiful young woman’. I had a huge growth spurt last year and my legs shot straight up making a vertical line from my thighs to hip bones to rib cage. No Kim Kardashian hourglass figure for me. There’s barely a curve, especially on my chest, which sucks.

  I push the mirror back into place and Paula puts her hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. ‘You okay?’ she asks, her eyes watery again. I nod, shaking it off. I need my space. But when she returns her hand to the steering wheel, my shoulder feels cold.

  We pull off the highway. ‘Here we are, I’m starving,’ Paula parks between a trailer and a truck among a sprawl of oil-stained concrete.

  She pulls out a pink sparkly wallet that contrasts with her plain jeans and cotton shirt. It reminds me of the fuchsia curtains with hundreds of tiny mirrors sewn on that Mum described to me once, the ones that hung in her and Paula’s shared university flat. ‘Just imagine it, Sunshine! You would have loved it,’ Mum said, because purple’s my favourite colour and I also love things a teeny bit hippy.

  University was where Mum met my father, Adam. Mum was studying arts, and Adam, biology.

  I’ve overheard enough grown-up conversations to know their gang was a bit wild; skipping class, smoking grass and failing exams. Some of them remained friends, like Melody. One night, years ago I woke to the sound of her laughter, the clinking of wine glasses and overheard my father’s name. When I asked Mum to tell me about him, she said it was just a stupid fling. She must have read my mind. ‘Not stupid!’ She hugged me tight, whispering, ‘because you were my gift, the best thing I’ve ever done’. But I pulled away, pissed.

  Mum told me when Adam found out about the pregnancy he took off – last known working the Alaskan salmon fisheries. ‘His name isn’t worth mentioning, such a loser.’ she said. ‘Sorry, Sunshine.’ I tried to get more information from her, but she never told me anything else, not even his last name.

  Now I’m mad. How could she have been so selfish? I don’t even know what my father looks like. I tried to find him on Facebook last week after Mum’s funeral. I put aside my fears that he’s not worth it, just like Mum said. Only a scumbag leaves his pregnant girlfriend. What about his unborn child? He never called to find out how they were? Who does that? But I thought someone should tell him about Mum, right? I imagined I’d miraculously find him with a quick search for Adam, Alaska and University of Sydney and he’d come and rescue me, all regrets and big love, and we’d head off for a brand new life. Together, father and daughter. Without the salmon.

  There are millions of men called Adam and after a few hours I gave up. Keeping me from my father as well as fighting with my aunt? Not cool, Mum, not okay. If only she was here, I’d scream at her.

  I open the car door and a cold wind smacks me in the face. Shivering, I grab my red woollen poncho. We’d found it trawling racks of second-hand clothes in our local op-shop; Mum bought a crochet top. Suddenly I hate the stupid thing; too bright and with long annoying tassels. It reminds me how far away I am from my home, from Mum. But I can’t cry, Paula is doing enough of that.

  I follow her inside and scan the large takeaway fridge: ham sandwich, chicken salad, sausage roll. Meat, meat and meat. I look around quickly before taking a picture. I post on Instagram both pics with a caption, ‘stuck in the middle of meat land, where are the #veggie choices? #teenvegan #westcreekvegan and #westcreekanimallovers just in case there’s a single soul out there. I can use the pic later to put on a new guest blog I’m writing for a website called Franimals. I’ve already written two posts and had two comments and a thumbs up. I’ve been asked to write another, but don’t know what it will be about yet. Even though I’m nowhere near good, I love writing and it’s good practice.

  It also kept me semi-sane during Mum’s treatment. As well as feeding my Instagram account. I keep myself anonymous as VeggieGirl and my profile pic is a baby panda. A tiny fluffy ball of black and white? Literally nothing cuter on Earth. I post about books, movies, cafes, anything veggie or animal-related. I adore Instagram. And my Instagram is probably the most successful thing I’ve ever done. It’s no easy feat getting people to follow you but I’ve become a master at hashtags. I have hundreds of followers, and one, in particular, is a kid called WildRider. He’s been commenting on my posts for a while and vice-versa; his posts are funny, and he’s a fan of crazy animal clips. I think he makes them himself with one of the hundreds of apps which I haven’t yet tried. His profile picture shows only an eye – his dog’s nose covers the rest of his face. But I can tell he’s really cute.

  I find a fruit salad and join Paula at the cash register line.

  ‘Do you have Wi-Fi?’ I ask. If she says no I might just die.

  ‘Of course,’ she smiles. Phew.

  She looks at my salad, ‘is that enough for you, sweetie? How about a nice steak pie?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I mutter. Doesn’t Paula remember I’m a vegetarian? I had a whole discussion with her at Christmas when I didn’t eat the turkey. I can’t be bothered telling her and having an entire conversation about it again.

  As we wait I flick the poncho tassels, contemplating cutting the stupid things off.

  ‘That’s mine!’ A busty girl tries to grab a packet of chips from her friend in front of me. The other one pulls it away and laughs, her lips shining with bright red lipstick, throwing it to a pimply girl behind. They keep chucking the bag between the three of them until it hits me on the head and bounces to the floor. I pick it up and return it to red lipstick – she doesn’t even say sorry.

  They look my age and I hope they’re not at my school. My first day is looming and I’ll be the ‘new girl’, the one everyone gossips about. What will the girls be like? At my old school, my classmates came from all over the p
lace: Vietnam, Lebanon, India, even Russia. But country girls? No idea what they’re like. And my old school was all girls, and this one is mixed. It’s going to be strange.

  I remember when Alison arrived in year seven from Los Angeles. She’d wooed the girls with the latest bubblegum flavours, tales of celebrity-spotting and a cool accent. She’d stolen my best friend Lizzy, and not only that, made fun of me being vegetarian. Soon Lizzy became popular and I’d remained on the sidelines, watching with envy.

  But I won’t be an ‘Alison’ now. I’m a run-of-the-mill city girl and the opposite of bubbly. I feel for the pimple on my nose. Still there. I have a heart full of bitter sadness and nothing to say. I haven’t laughed for weeks and there’s no way I’d throw a chip bag at anyone.

  I’m doomed.

  ‘How you feeling, sweetie?’ Paula asks as we return to the car. One percent of me wants to share all my worries with her, but the other ninety-nine percent says no way.

  We get back into the car and slowly the concrete changes to khaki-green hills cut by fences and spotted with cows. It’s still ages to West Creek but the air smells fresh like clean laundry. I have to admit it’s pretty, especially when hours later I see the sun brush purple streaks across the sky.

  ‘I’m closing the windows,’ Paula says as we’re hit by a noxious smell, ‘the stench from that farm is intense every few weeks.’

  We drive past a sign ‘Welcome to West Creek’ and a minute later Paula pulls into a gravel driveway in front of a small red-brick house.

  ‘A while since you were here, what, two years?’ Paula asks.

  ‘Whose fault is that?’ I want to say. ‘If you and Mum didn’t have some stupid never-ending fight I’d know you better, and maybe all of this would be a teeny bit less horrible.’